Tharic Ironshaper does not remember the night he was found—only the cold, the rain, and the dwarven shield he clutched with both hands like a lifeline. The guards who discovered him outside Neverwinter’s walls believed he was an orphaned traveler, half-starved and half-frozen. The temple scribes who took him in believed he was something rarer: a life hammered by fate before it ever began. He grew up among the city’s working folk, drifting between forges and barracks, learning discipline from soldiers and patience from smiths. Every master who taught him the hammer’s art swore he had the instincts of a dwarf despite lacking the beard, the build, or the enthusiasm for ale. Whether the shield he arrived with once belonged to a dwarven clan remains a topic he avoids. Some mysteries are anvils—too heavy to lift until you’re ready. When the Tower District cracked under the wrath of Mount Hotenow, Tharic stood among those who stayed behind to reinforce shelters, dig survivors from rubble, and rebuild streets with his own bleeding hands. He forged tools for rescue crews, armor for militia patrols, and blades meant not for glory but for survival. It was during those years of ash and heat that people began calling him Ironshaper, long before he ever accepted the name. Ironshaper Forge opened in the months after the city began reclaiming its strength. The shop is a stark contrast to the chaotic brilliance of Robertra Plateforge down the street: quieter, steadier, built like a fortress of stone and iron. Yet the forge fire inside burns with a focus that feels almost prophetic. Tharic’s work embodies discipline—clean lines, precise weight, enchantments so subtle they strengthen rather than dazzle. He specializes in weapons meant for those who stand against darkness: city guards, adventurers on the Wall, scouts patrolling the Chasm’s edge. His shields are renowned for absorbing impact without transferring force. His blades hold an edge even after cutting through unnatural things that leave ordinary steel pitted and screaming. Despite his stoic exterior, Tharic is not unfriendly. He listens more than he speaks, and the few words he offers are always honest. Patrons say he can sense when someone needs strength in their hands more than steel. Others claim he forges weapons that suit a person’s true self—whether they admit that truth or not. The old dwarven shield that arrived with him hangs above the forge hearth. Some nights it glows faintly, as though remembering battles he has yet to fight. Tharic never explains it. He merely continues shaping metal with a calm intensity, each hammer strike a quiet declaration: destiny is forged, not inherited. Whatever his past may hold, Ironshaper Forge stands as a place of purpose in the Merchants Quarter—a refuge for the weary, an armory for the brave, and a reminder that strength crafted with care can hold back even the darkest tide.